


Us Ones In Between

by ChemFishee



Category: Torchwood
Genre: 2008 Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:56:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChemFishee/pseuds/ChemFishee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days – most days, lately – Ianto Jones thinks he’s in over his head.<br/>(December 2008)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Us Ones In Between

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Sunset Rubdown song. A special thanks goes to LJ's lucy_locket for posting the Ianto Jones profile from _The Torchwood Archives_. This turned out a little more bittersweet than what I originally intended.  
>  Beta'd by LJ's kennedy_unknown, who dazzles me with brilliance every time
> 
> (Originally posted [here](http://thestopwatch.livejournal.com/42817.html).)

  
_and i’ve heard of pious men_  
and i’ve heard of dirty fiends  
but you don’t often hear  
of us ones in between  
\- “us ones in between” sunset rubdown

**

monday.

**  
Some days – most days, lately – Ianto Jones thinks he’s in over his head.

His breath is snapped away in a wisp of fog as soon as he opens the door to the tourist information centre. He pulls the collar of his overcoat to attention. The tips of his ears tingle as he tucks his chin into his chest.

The city remains eerily quiet as the sun scatters off the Bay at improbable angles, spotting the edges of his vision orange and gold. The morning gulls have fled to hover over the sports complex on the university campus, their cries bouncing off abandoned dormitories.

Ianto’s fingers curl around the lighter in his pocket, brushing against the crinkled plastic of his much-abused pack. He edges to the CCTV blindspot he mapped along the front of the tourist office before filching out a cigarette. With his back to the corner, surrounded by newspapers chronicling the volatility of the world markets, he strikes the flint on his lighter and inhales.

His fingers are already numb as the first puff of nicotine hits his bloodstream. He tucks his left hand back into his pocket, his fingers lax around his cheap plastic lighter. He toes the planks in the docks as the smoke curls into his skin. The wind stings off the surface of the Bay. He tries to think feeling back into his legs, listing and discarding possible places to get takeaway for lunch. He wants something different than their usual diet of pizza and curry, which is why he’s not letting Jack choose the place. Over half the length of his cigarette is ash. Ianto sags into the corner as he takes another drag. 

 

-

 

Gwen finds him on the rooftop of the Millennium Centre. His coat tangles around his legs; she wonders if he chose to keep it as part of his costume because it was the closest thing to a cape he could find. And that’s how she thinks of him, even now.

She raises a hand to shield her eyes from the sun magnified off the copper roof. 

“Ianto send you?” Jack’s shoulders slip as the weight of the world resettles.

“Said he’d be back in twenty minutes with lunch,” she says, edging to Jack’s side. They stand there in repose, Jack watching the progress of rebuilding a city and Gwen torn between watching Jack and watching Cardiff plaster itself together. She squints into the sun and hopes it won’t burn her.

Jack slides an arm around her waist, and Gwen instinctively curls into his side, into his warmth. “Humans, actually human cities, are the cockroaches of the universe.”

Gwen blinks at the non-sequitur, giving the uneasy smile she displays when she’s never sure whether to take him seriously or not. Although now it’s more close-mouthed than it used to be. “Are you saying we’re pests?”

“You’re resilient. And curious.”

“Does it happen now, Jack?”

He sighs. Her hair tangles around her shoulders and into his buttons. She tries to push it out of her face, uncurling her fingers from Jack’s braces. “It’s not supposed to happen yet.”

“Do you know…”

“I have a friend. And he says…”

“The Doctor?”

“And he says that this planet is drawing attention to itself as it totters out of infancy. I don’t know when it happens, but it’s soon.”

“But how does that make us cockroaches?” Her nose wrinkles at the thought.

He shrugs and pulls her closer. “When I come from, there’s another version of this planet. There’s the fourth incarnation of New York, a version of London, even a Cardiff.”

Gwen scoffs. She doesn’t remember when she stopped substituting her _wheres_ for his _whens_. “Cardiff survives?”

For the first time since she approached him, Jack looks at Gwen. “Cardiff always survives.”

He returns his gaze to the Cardiff of now. Gwen follows, will always follow. The wind whips around them, but she no longer feels it. She hugs Jack tightly. He rests his chin on the top of her head.

Time slides until she feels Jack speak. “Ianto’s back.”

She unfurls from his side, missing the warmth already. He brushes his lips against hers. “C’mon,” he whispers. “He’s got non-pizza takeaway.”

She takes a moment to gather her breath. The skyline has nearly been restored to the view she remembers when she would sneak up here only a year ago and will answers to be returned. There’s only ever more questions now.

“Coming?” Jack asks, holding the access door open.

 

-

 

Ianto gathers the stack of pamphlets into a tight pile and tucks them into the rack along the wall. He confined himself to the front office halfway through December, returning to the yearly tradition of directing tourists to Llangynwyd in time to see the Mari Lwyd. 

Some days, though, he really hates Google.

The hidden door swings open quietly, Gwen peeking around the edge. “Busy?” He shakes his head. “Want company?”

It’s been different, the past few months. Ianto stopped making five coffees for team meetings four weeks after it happened, and Gwen’s tears quit flowing freely when she finally dried out. They are pushing and pulling against each other, growing up and past this by a thread. Ten days after it happened, Ianto took the Risen Mitten – just thinking about the stupid name put a lump in his throat – out of the secondary hiding place and put it back into Jack’s safe. He didn’t think any of them could handle a third zombie.

Gwen shuffles in front of the counter, dragging her finger along the edge. She purses her lips, but it remains silent in the tourist office. Ianto slips behind the counter. He fidgets with a tattered copy of _OK!_ before the glossy picture captures Gwen’s attention. 

“Have you thought of Christmas this year?” she asks.

“Not really.” Ianto shrugs. “There really… There really isn’t anything to think about, is there?”

“No. I guess not.” He can see her eyes peeking through her fringe. “Have any plans?”

“Provided the world doesn’t end?”

“Provided the world doesn’t end.”

“Watching telly and getting pissed. Maybe not in that order.”

Gwen chuckles softly. “Now you sound like Owen.” Ianto grimaces into a small grin for her. “Want to come ‘round for dinner tomorrow night?”

“It’s a date.” She places a soft kiss on his cheek. “You’d better get back downstairs before Jack notices you’re slagging off.” He can’t remember the last time he saw the endearing gap in her teeth.

 

 ****

 **tuesday.**

  
Ianto doesn’t recognize anything when he first opens his eyes against the slanted light of dawn. He blinks twice before registering the sounds of Jack in the shower, the sheets at his back already cooled. Ianto rolls onto his back, stretching his shoulders.

He hears the water shut off and knows that it will only be moments before Jack pads back into the bedroom to dig through his drawers for a clean pair of underwear. Things change, sometimes imperceptibly. 

Ianto crawls out of bed to start the first pot of coffee for the day.

 

-

 

“What’s the worst Christmas gift you’ve ever gotten?” They’re huddled around one end of the conference table when Gwen asks her question.

Jack doesn’t even finish chewing before he answers. “Live long enough and you eventually end up getting everything. Sometimes two or three times.” A noodle pops out of the corner of his mouth, and Ianto has to look away to carefully swallow his own mouthful before choking. Some things never change.

“A barbeque,” Ianto volunteers. Gwen tries to piece this into a story. “Lisa wasn’t the best with practicality.” It’s Jack’s turn to pointedly not look at Ianto.

 

-

 

They chase Weevils down blind alleys, avoiding cracks that fracture in the past tense, and hold themselves together with coffee, adrenaline, and plasters. There are three where there should be five, and they can’t bring themselves to right the imbalance. The bottom of the world, the end of the world, and Cardiff remains on its shaken foundation outside his front door.

 

-

 

He’s busy pretending to be busy when the email comes through at 3pm. Ianto is tabbing out of the BBC News homepage when an IM window opens.

JHarkness: Did you see what Martha sent?  
IJones: Didn’t open it yet. One moment.  
IJones: Oh.  
JHarkness: Want to go?  
JHarkness: No clean-up operation.  
JHarkness: Might do us some good to get away for a weekend.  
JHarkness: Ianto?  
IJones: I’ll book the hotel.  
JHarkness: Good.  
IJones: _typing_  
IJones: _has entered text_  
JHarkness: Ianto? 

Ianto closes the window. Sometimes they still don’t know what to say to one another. It’s mere minutes before another message appears in his inbox.

 

-

 

Ianto picks the tree up in a fit of pique. It is small and nearly sparse. By the time he drags it up the stairs to his flat, it has lost another branch. His hands are layered in a thin coating of sap. He props the tree next to the telly before realizing that he doesn’t know how he will keep it from toppling. He will probably regret not succumbing to a fake, but he is in the mood for nostalgia.

 

-

 

Rhys pours more wine. Ianto’s nose and cheeks are stained pink. Gwen’s speech is slurred softly. Jack is only on his second glass.

 

-

 

Ianto walks with a slight list, leaning into Jack. His hand wraps tighter around Jack’s, seeking balance. Jack laughs at the apparent lack of coordination and is met with a glassy and slightly unfocused glare. “’s’not funny.”

They stop outside the Café Nero above the Tourist Information Centre. Jack leans against the rail, his back to the Bay. Ianto looks over the water. There are clouds hanging low over the horizon, colouring it a darker shade of gray.

“Were we celebrating tonight?” Jack asks.

Ianto watches his fingers curl over flaking paint chips. He slides his hands out, resting on his elbows and letting his head fall forward. He rolls a shrug. “Seemed appropriate.”

Jack lets the sounds of revellers spilling out of restaurants along Mermaid Quay supply his retort. He blinks rapidly as something catches in his eyelashes. Another blink and it coalesces into a water droplet. He looks up and watches tiny white flecks dance in the lamplight.

“Ianto, look.” He nudges the man beside him. “It’s snowing.”

Ianto raises his head as the flurries start falling faster, hitting the pavement and melting into pinpricks of fleeting memory. Nothing is sticking and he idly muses around a story Jack once told of falling ash from a destroyed alien ship being mistaken for snow. He was in London when it allegedly happened. Ianto darts his tongue out quickly, capturing snowflakes like in the movies. He can’t stop the grin that breaks out in childish delight, laughing at the simplicity of it all.

Jack marvels at the change in Ianto and is reminded again just how young his archivist is. The joy radiating off Ianto is infectious. Jack wraps an arm around Ianto’s waist and drags him to stand in front of Jack. Ianto lowers his head, the falling snow melting into droplets in the soft curls of his hair. Jack raises a hand and rubs his thumb along Ianto’s jaw. His nail scrapes through the short stubble before his fingers wrap around Ianto’s neck and tug him closer. They rub noses, nudging each other into position before Jack pulls Ianto off-balance. Their lips meet leisurely. Jack’s tongue brushes over Ianto’s bottom lip but doesn’t seek entry.

 

Jack has never thought of standing still before. But now there’s nothing left to hide. _There’s nothing left to hide._

 

 ****

 **wednesday. (Christmas Eve)**

  
Ianto awakens to a dull throb behind his eyes and a mouth that feels as if it’s packed with cotton wool. He rolls away from the sunlight crawling around the curtains, pulling the duvet over his head. On the nightstand, he sees two paracetamol and a glass of water. 

Ianto swallows the pills, closing his eyes against the vertigo sitting up slightly has induced, before folding back into the cocoon of his sleep-warm sheets. The other side of the bed hasn’t cooled yet, but he is alone in the room.

 

-

 

When Ianto opens his eyes again, the headache has receded. He is still thirsty.

Ianto pulls the duvet off his head to find Jack propped against the headboard with a copy of some pulp novel opened. He has taken to wearing reading glasses as a concession to the fact that he is still aging. “Going to have a lie-in all day?”

Ianto leans up onto his elbows. “Will I get breakfast in bed?”

Jack turns the page and nods to the nightstand again. There is a plate with four pieces of toast stacked. “You can have that as long as you don’t bitch about the crumbs.”

Ianto snags the topmost piece, noting that it is lightly buttered with no jam. “Promise.”

Jack turns the page again. Ianto is convinced that Jack only skims whatever he happens to snatch off the bookshelf in the lounge, even though he has time enough to read each word.

“Where’d you get the tree?”

 

-

 

Ianto turns the tree in the stand again, trying to hide the broken branch in the back. A box of ornaments he last opened in London sits at his feet. His long sleeved t-shirt catches on the branches and knocks loose needles. His bare toes curl reflexively against the hardwood grain. Outside, he can see the ground turning white.

Ianto has the tree finally in position when Jack buzzes to be let up into the flat.

 

-

 

Jack pulls out the box of faerie lights. “All that was left,” he says by way of apology. The still-falling snow has laid his hair flat against his forehead.

Ianto feigns annoyance, but the truth is he always preferred the solid, white lights to flashy colored ones. They remind him of his father.

Jack unravels the first strand from its packaging, tangling at his feet. He tries to work out the largest knot, but Ianto disengages him gently. “I’ll string.”

It takes ten minutes and two strands to cover enough of the tree to distraction. “Something’s still missing.” 

 

-

 

Ianto passes another glass of wine to Jack over the cartons of takeaway Jack also brought back. “Rhi wants me to go to the midnight service with her.”

“Want me to come with?” Jack asks before shovelling another forkful into his mouth. Ianto is still not sure if he would ever want to find out just how atrocious table manners are in the 51st century.

“No.” Ianto smiles around the rim of his wineglass. “I want you to be my excuse for leaving.”

 

-

 

Ianto slides into the bed, his feet still cold from his trek through the accumulating snow. He wraps himself around Jack’s back, moulding himself around the other man. Jack rolls onto his stomach. Ianto follows, hooking a leg between Jack’s.

“You’re cold,” Jack murmurs into the pillow.

Ianto presses a kiss along Jack’s spine. “Cold out.”

“I gave you a star.”

“Shh, Jack. Go back to sleep.”

Jack burrows further into the pillow. His breathing evens into that of a peaceful slumber. Ianto remains awake, tracing patterns along the planes of Jack’s back.

 ****

 **thursday. (Christmas)**

  
Long after Jack’s fallen back asleep, Ianto sits on his couch and greets the slow rise of morning with a quiet expectation. Everything seems unfamiliar and not just the star Jack put on top of the tree.

The snow is still falling in lazy arcs, the world outside glittering across scattered diamonds. There is a chance that the sky refusing to be darkest before dawn will let him be a good man, the man he needs to become.

Ianto unfurls himself and crosses to the window behind the tree. He steps around the pine needles already shedding onto the floor to pull the curtain back and watch history repeating. There’s been too much of that in his life recently. 

He doesn’t hear Jack pad up behind him, isn’t aware of his presence until arms wrap around his waist from behind, settling between his navel and the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. Jack presses a kiss behind his ear before resting his chin in the curve between Ianto’s neck and shoulder. Ianto leans into the embrace, tension uncurling his spine.

“Snow’s still falling.”

“Yep. May be enough to clear in the morning.”

They settle into a quiet routine, Ianto watching the snow fall and Jack watching Ianto. The sky is turning purple around the edges. “I didn’t get you anything.”

Jack sighs, his warm breath tickling the short hairs along Ianto’s neck. “Are you happy?” he asks.

Ianto pauses a moment, the question unexpected. He thinks he can finally answer truthfully. “I am.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s all I need, Ianto. That’s something that no one else can give me.” 

“Happy Christmas, Jack.”

“Happy Christmas, Ianto.” Jack presses closer and nuzzles the paper thin skin over Ianto’s pulse point. “Come back to bed.”

Ianto folds his hands over Jack’s, squeezing. He’s not sure if he likes the way _forever_ sounds. He still doesn’t know what any of this means yet.

“Be there in a moment.”

Some days – most days, lately – Ianto Jones thinks he’s in over his head.


End file.
